A Man of Feeling
by Pontmercesque
Summary: Courfeyrac really is a Romantic and Combeferre is an excellent listener, at least until he catches something he doesn't want to hear.


One day, they didn't talk about politics. Because Combeferre was sick of politics, for the moment, anyway, sick at heart as he always felt after hours of fruitless argument with poor men who refused to reach out to Reason, and Courfeyrac felt sick at heart as well. "What is it?" asked Combeferre, as people began to disperse. Courfeyrac cast his gaze petulantly to the side. Combeferre placed a hand on his elbow and wordlessly led him back to his own lodgings, where he poured the cold coffee he had left that morning, sprinkled in a little of his precious sugar and handed it to his guest.

"It's Caroline," Courfeyrac sighed. He must have spent a long time working at that, too, the perfect spoken sigh.

"No! Not the divine Caroline!" Combeferre sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, and automatically Courfeyrac sat beside him.

"She's betrayed me."

"Another man?"

"At least! God, how could I be so foolish?"

"Well, what were you expecting?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Surely you must have done the same to her."

"What! Never!" Courfeyrac looked genuinely horrified. "I don't know what a libertine like yourself gets up to, but I would never betray the woman I loved."

"Oh. I thought you did that."

"Combeferre! You think that low of me?"

"Well, what about – what was her name? Lise – Lucie–"

"Yes, well, that was after she made off with my pocket-watch. I didn't expect her to turn up again."

"I see."

Courfeyrac rearranged himself to lay his head in Combeferre's lap. His hair was very, very curly.

"Why do I have such terrible luck?" he asked piteously.

"Perhaps you just make terrible choices."

"It can't be that! No, things always go sour, no matter what I do. But Lord, you're right, I should have known better. A girl like that – like Caroline – I knew from the start she would be trouble. But she seemed so lovely, when she talked about how difficult her life had been, when she told me about everything she wished she could be! And I wanted to help her. All I wanted right then was to make all her wishes come true."

"Well, perhaps you need someone more…"

"Someone who already has all of that?"

"Someone more... innocent."

"Ignorant?"

"Honest."

"Bourgeoise?"

"Marriageable."

"I don't want to repeat what happened with Henriette."

"Who–? Nevermind. Have you tried the lesser nobility?"

Courfeyrac laughed. "Caroline was lesser nobility in her own right. Marquise de la rue Saint-Antoine!"

"There are worse things to be."

"Yes. But you'd think she'd have more sense, that girl, growing up as she did in the very shadow of the Bastille."

"The fortress fallen, the shadow remains." Combeferre said this not so much as a response to his friend's comment, but as a general statement, as if he had already been ruminating upon it for days.

"But some people find sunshine wherever they go." Courfeyrac choked back a small sob.

"Oh, stop." Combeferre clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I mean it, though, I really feel like I might die."

"It'll pass."

"Combeferre, I loved her. I do love her."

Combeferre sighed himself. "I know," he said gently.

"Do you?" Courfeyrac turned to face upward. "Because no one else seems to believe me when I say it. Not even she did. And she sure as hell didn't love me. Why? Am I very untrustworthy? Or do I just seem the wrong type for falling in love?"

"I don't know. But listen, anyone who thinks that must not be a very good judge of character."

"Are you being serious now? I can never tell with you."

"Very serious." Combeferre placed a hand on his friend's forehead, underneath his hair. "You're warm. Go home and rest."

"I'm not. You're cold. Doesn't it get cold here at night?"

"I get by."

Courfeyrac was staring at him. With his eyebrows covered his pale eyes looked unusually round, childlike, almost. "Do you know," he said, in an abruptly conversational sort of way, "I wish–" He broke off and the slightest of smiles crept across his face. "I'm about to say something utterly foolish."

"Most people would stop themselves," Combeferre pointed out.

"Alright. Well, it's not so bad. I was just going to say, I wish I could find a girl a little more, well, like you."

Combeferre's heart skipped a beat. "Like…?"

"Oh, you know. You're so even-tempered. Sensible. And – I'm not sure if I'm saying this right – I feel like you really understand me. So I don't need to think about my presentation, I never calculate what I say or do around you."

"Clearly," Combeferre said briskly. As he spoke he jerked his knee to the side, causing Courfeyrac to slip.

"Good God! You're not angry, are you?"

"Of course I'm not." Combeferre stood.

"You are! There, this is exactly what I was talking about! I can't even protest my friendship for you and be taken seriously!"

"You know that's not true."

"Isn't it?"

"I think you have a fever and it's making you act irrationally. I think you should go home and rest. Eat something."

Courfeyrac gaped at him. He was still on the floor.

"Go on," said Combeferre. "I'll see you on Saturday. Now, it's time to go."


End file.
